


Oh, The Less I Know The Better

by SeaOfBones



Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Jaskier | Dandelion, Casual Sex, Feelings Realization, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, eighty percent comedy because jaskier is incapable of not talking, my personal witcher endgame is Messy OT3 so, sort of bittersweet, suddenly not feeling so casual anymore, there is some affectionate yennefer roasting, they are both idiots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-22
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:48:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,775
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22851274
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SeaOfBones/pseuds/SeaOfBones
Summary: It isn’t the first time Jaskier has slept with Geralt of Rivia in a shitty room above a tavern. But it is the first time he's realised he has feelings for him.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 16
Kudos: 400





	Oh, The Less I Know The Better

Jaskier laughed drunkenly as Geralt led him up the stairs, a firm, gloved grip dragging him by the upper arm towards the only room the shitty inn at the crossroads east of Vizima had left. The Witcher held a weak candle in his other hand, the leather strap of Jaskier’s lute dangling from his broad shoulders.

“ _I_ think that went well,” Jaskier insisted, steadying himself against the wall and checking, for the third time since they’d left the pub, whether he still had his coin purse.

Geralt shot a glare down at him without breaking his step, eyes flickering orange in the soft candlelight.

“ _One_ fight,” Jaskier breezed, blearily waving a finger. “And it wasn’t _really_ a fight.” An image of the local who’d taken an issue with his singing swam to the front of his mind, red-faced as Geralt reluctantly restrained him from throwing another glass across the room. “You just can’t please some people.”

“I thought _you’d_ be pleased,” Geralt said dryly. “Most nights there’s more than one person trying to get you to stop.”

“Well,” Jaskier drawled, shrugging against Geralt’s grip. “I think I’ve been doing some of my best work recently. With _you_ as my muse, of course.”

Geralt pushed the door open, and caught Jaskier by the collar as he stumbled over the last step.

“I thought Lady Montfort was your muse,” Geralt said.

The attic room was dark apart from the light from Geralt’s candle. Jaskier was dangling rather closer to the bare-board floor than he’d wanted.

“Yes, well... that didn’t exactly work out,” Jaskier replied. “Her husband came back from Skellige early. She made me climb down the trellis below her window and threw my clothes out after me.” He let Geralt haul him back to his feet. Threadbare curtains wafted in the draft from the cracked window frame. “The song I wrote for her was pretty shit anyway.”

“It was,” Geralt said.

“You’re not supposed to _agree_ with me,” Jaskier sniffed. He dragged himself out of Geralt’s grip, and strode towards the curtains. “ _It was such a beautiful song, Jaskier. She didn’t deserve you_.”

Geralt slung Jaskier’s lute from his shoulder and laid it against the wall, giving Jaskier a look, a small smile and a raised eyebrow, that Jaskier was choosing to take as amused _with_ rather than _at_ him. Standing in the middle of the room, the caress of the cold draft sent a shiver up Jaskier’s spine through the thin material of his satin jacket.

“Fuck,” Jaskier breathed, throwing his hands up. “It’s freezing.”

There were two beds pressed close together, Jaskier and Geralt’s belongings already strewn across the coarse linen sheets. Jaskier slumped on to the bed, and lay back across both of them.

“I don’t suppose they’d draw us another bath,” Jaskier sighed, attempting to kick his boots off.

“No,” Geralt replied. Jaskier craned his neck to watch the serious expression on the Witcher’s face as he lit the last lamp with a steady hand, and blew the candle out with a short, sharp breath. His white hair was still neat, scraped back from his face and tied in a high ponytail.

“Well,” Jaskier said, affecting a sigh. “I suppose there are other ways to keep warm.”

It had been Geralt's idea, the first time they'd slept together. Sort of. Well, not that Jaskier hadn't thought about it. Apparently he'd been thinking about it enough that Geralt had picked up on it.

_Jaskier, out with it already._

Geralt nodded silently, jaw tight.

It was, you know. Nothing serious. Friendly. Casual. They often shared rooms while they were travelling together. They had shared rooms and _not had anything better to do_ a fair few times over the years, falling in and out of each other’s paths every few months. When Geralt was pining over Yennefer, or Jaskier was mourning another unceremonious break-up with another of the loves of his life.

Jaskier flung bags, books and sheathed knives on to the floor as Geralt began to undress, sturdy fingers with bruised nails unbuttoning the thick woollen doublet that usually nestled beneath his armour.

“How do you want to do this?” Geralt asked.

“I'm a little drunk,” Jaskier replied lightly. “And I'd like to lie down.”

“Fine,” Geralt replied.

Jaskier allowed himself a crooked smile as Geralt removed the doublet. As he untucked his undershirt and pulled it over his head. His muscular shoulders and broad chest bare, speckled with dark hair. A bandage covering his upper arm, from this morning’s eight-legged ordeal.

“Jaskier,” Geralt prompted, with an amused quirk of his lips.

“Oh, right,” Jaskier stumbled, closing his mouth. He shrugged his thin, bright jacket from his shoulders, plucked at the string fastening the front of his shirt. Geralt knelt on the bed and took him by the collar, slipping Jaskier’s shirt over his wrist with studied, deadly care.

“On your back?” Geralt prompted.

“Well, how else will I see your friendly little face?” Jaskier replied.

Geralt frowned in a very not-friendly way. Jaskier smirked, and let Geralt push him back across the bed, reaching for his firm, toned abdomen with his lute-calloused fingers. Geralt’s skin was warm against Jaskier’s chest, broad shoulders keeping the draft at bay.

“We’re still heading for Hagge tomorrow?” Jaskier asked. “The basilisk problem?”

Geralt lifted his head as Jaskier traced his fingers lower. “It’s a full day’s travel,” he said evenly. “If you’re hungover again, I’ll leave you behind.”

Lower and lower, over Geralt’s belt and down his armour-thick leather trousers, Jaskier felt through the protective layer for the warmth between his legs.

Geralt’s arms went tense as Jaskier’s hand found his groin, fingers gripping the sheets taut. He stiffened against Jaskier's touch, as Jaskier's other hand pressed against his back, as Jaskier's mouth pressed against his neck, lips brushing the chain of his wolf’s-head pendant that draped, a disc of cold, against Jaskier’s bare collarbone.

Jaskier unhooked Geralt’s belt with one deft hand, and pushed at his waistband. Geralt cupped a hand over Jasker’s to guide him, sliding his trousers down. Jaskier let out a thin gasp, pressing his hips up against Geralt’s cock through the thin material of his trousers.

“You know,” Jaskier panted, mind spinning, eyes alighting on Geralt’s bandaged arm. “I still haven’t found something that rhymes with _spider_.”

“ _Jaskier_ ,” Geralt snapped irritably. “ _This isn’t the time_.”

“Well, there’s no need to sound so _annoyed_ ,” Jaskier drawled, pressing his head back against the coarse pillows. “It’s no wonder Yennefer keeps leaving, if you talk to her anything like how you talk to me.”

Geralt scowled, hands paused against Jaskier's belt. “It’s no wonder women keep throwing you out, if you _won’t stop talking_.”

Jaskier’s lip quivered, and he lay still as Geralt slid his trousers down, rough thumbs brushing against his hipbones. Geralt sighed.

“…Do you still want to do this?” Geralt asked.

Geralt wasn’t wrong. It went like this a lot. People tended to prefer Jaskier when he kept his mouth shut.

“…Do you?” Jaskier asked.

“…Yes?” Geralt replied, as if that had been a particularly stupid question.

“Well, then,” Jaskier said tightly. “I suppose since we’re both sitting here with our cocks out, we might as well, you know. Keep going.”

Geralt leaned over him, slowly, almost gently, tousled white hair framing his face. Jaskier tilted his hips up, quietly concentrating as he guided Geralt in with his hands.

“That comment about Yennefer was over the line,” Jaskier said. “So, I’m sorry about that.” He wasn’t sure why he was still talking. “She’s alright. You know, if you’re into that sort of thing.”

“What sort of thing?” Geralt replied.

Jaskier let out a short, sharp breath as Geralt eased his way in, hard shaft pressed against the sensitive spot just below the jutting bone at the base of Jaskier’s spine.

“Oh, you know,” Jaskier gasped. Geralt was always gentler than Jaskier expected, even compared to the noble’s daughters he was used to taking. “Sexy. Evil. Might be pouring your semen out into a little jar afterwards and using it to summon a demon.”

“A demon,” Geralt said, an amused glint in his golden eyes. He rocked his hips back and forth, slowly at first, easing Jaskier into a shared rhythm.

“Oh, don’t tell me,” Jaskier replied. “ _That’s not how you summon a demon_.”

“Well, some demons,” Geralt replied, tilting his head slightly. Jaskier spread his hands across Geralt’s shoulders, feeling the quivering movements of long, roped muscles beneath his skin.

“Some demons?” Jaskier prompted. Geralt lowered himself closer, chest to chest, and pressed his pelvis down harder.

“Write a song about it,” Geralt grunted.

Jaskier wondered if anyone would ever say his name the way Geralt said Yennefer’s, ever gaze after him with such longing as he left into the night.

He wondered if Geralt would ever say his name that way.

Fuck. Oh, fuck.

The thought passed through Jaskier’s mind with the ease of remembering long-rehearsed lyrics. Jaskier ground his hipbones upwards, cock pressed against Geralt’s abdomen. Imagined practiced variations in Geralt’s voice, as if searching for just the right key change. How would he want him to say it, whispered against his ear? Gentle, passionate, lusting. _Jaskier_ , _Jaskier_ , _Jaskier_.

Jaskier realised he was moaning. All the air from his singer’s lungs, breathing out smoothly and deeply against Geralt’s ear. When he pushed harder, Geralt pushed back. Jaskier came too quickly, at the thought of Geralt’s voice and the press of his hips against his arse. Clutching Geralt’s shoulders, Jaskier kept his hips moving in time as the warmth spread, from his crotch to his chest to his fingertips.

It didn’t take Geralt too long to finish up.

Geralt rolled off, on to his back, and stared up at the ceiling. Jaskier watched as he smoothed a lock of hair behind his ears as he leaned back.

Jaskier wanted Geralt to say his name very, very much right now. But he didn’t know how to ask, how to say. That wasn’t how things were between them. He wanted what Yennefer had, to be able to come and go, to fuck and fight, to love him messily and be loved even more disastrously in turn.

“…Jaskier,” Geralt said, with more suspicion than affection. “What is it?”

Jaskier gave a trembling smile. “Hmm?”

“You’ve stopped talking,” Geralt said flatly.

“I’m… very drunk,” Jaskier lied.

“Hmm,” Geralt replied, clearly unconvinced.

Jaskier’s eyes traced Geralt’s face. The stubble across his jaw, the faded scar across his cheek. Jaskier swallowed. Geralt kept looking at him, and still said nothing.

_Jaskier, out with it already._

His lip trembling, Jaskier leant forward, and kissed Geralt on the mouth.


End file.
